Death's Cold Hand, J.E. Mayhew [book club recommendations .txt] 📗

“None, sir,” Kath said. “No cameras there. Only one on the garden centre carpark and he didn’t go near there.”

“Okay, Vikki, Kath and Alex, you talk to Travis’s drinking buddies. I’ll pay a visit to Mrs Travis,” Blake said, his heart sinking. “I want to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible.”

*****

The Travis’ house lay at the northern end of the village, not far from the Lady Lever Art Gallery. It was a large end terrace with a red tiled roof and white walls. Every house in Port Sunlight seemed slightly different to Blake, some of them looked small but the Travis’ was one of the larger ones. Parking his car at the side of the road, he knocked on the bright green door and waited.

Tasha Cook answered the door, her thick, honey-coloured hair tied back. She looked drawn and, once again, Blake couldn’t help but admire those who stayed with the bereaved, bridging that gap between family and the force. “You okay, Tasha?”

“Yes, sir. I think it’s just sinking in with Rachel…”

“Mrs Travis?”

“That’s right,” Tasha said. “The little girl, Danielle is with her grandma.”

“Any information?”

Tasha shook her head. “Nothing note-worthy yet. They seem like a normal, loving couple. Planning holidays, more kids, you know.” She pulled the front door back and Blake stepped in. “She identified the photographs of the tattoos as being those of Paul Travis. I don’t think she’s able to formally identify him.  Just go gently, sir.”

Blake raised an eyebrow at Tasha. She had been critical in the past and not afraid to respectfully point out that he could be like a bull in a china shop in his eagerness to solve a case. “I’ll do my best.”

The house was stylish and minimalist without being too clinical or cold. Whoever had decorated had an eye for design, mixing the traditional features of the house with modern wallpaper and paint colours. It looked lived-in, too, a child’s bike in the hall and coats hanging on the banisters.

Rachel Travis was a small woman, in her early thirties, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She had an almond-shaped face and a short, snub nose that was currently rubbed red with tissues. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara. Blake wondered how she managed to do the simplest of tasks with nails as long as hers. She sat in a cream armchair, cradling a pile of tissues in her lap. An untouched cup of coffee stood on the parquet flooring.

“Rachel, this is Detective Chief Inspector Blake. He’ll be leading the investigation into Paul’s death.”

Rachel stood up, smoothing her dark skirt down. “Forgive me. I must look a proper sight.”

Blake gave a pained look. “No, no,” Blake said, trying to figure out what to say next. You look fine? Hardly. You okay considering your husband has just been murdered? Jeez! “Just… have a seat.”

She folded back into the armchair, hugging herself. Blake settled on the edge of the sofa opposite her. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Blake said. The words always sounded hollow and he wished he could show he meant them. “This must be a terrible time for you.”

Rachel looked up at Blake. “I’ve had better days,” she said, her fleeting smile decaying into a sob.

Blake waited for her shaking to subside. “So, Rachel, I know you’ve been through this, but can you tell me when you last saw Paul.”

“Early evening last night. He gave Danielle a bath, read her a bedtime story and headed out for the pub.”

“And how did he seem? His mood, I mean…”

Rachel thought for a moment. “Just normal. Quite cheerful, I suppose. He pecked me on the cheek and said not to wait up. Oh God, those were his last words: don’t wait up.” She started sobbing again.

Blake glanced nervously over at Tasha. “Rachel, this is a difficult question to ask and it might be upsetting but, can you think of anyone who might want to hurt Paul?”

“No,” Rachel said, looking at Blake in horror. “Who would want to do that? He was a kind, generous man, full of life. Everyone who met him loved him…”

“Could anyone have been jealous of that?”

Rachel looked perplexed as though she was trying to work out an impossible equation. “I honestly can’t think of anyone who had a bad word to say about Paul. I mean, he had the odd difference of opinion with George about Pro-Vets…”

“This is George Owens?”

“Yeah but he’d never harm Paul…”

“Nobody is suggesting he would, Rachel, but we just need to get a full picture of Paul’s background, his relationships, that kind of thing,” Tasha said, eyeing Blake.

“What did he and Paul disagree about?” Blake asked.

Rachel smiled. “Paul was always wanting to go large, to grow the charity and help more people. George was just cautious, that’s all. He wanted to keep things manageable. George kept an eye on the finances while Paul was more the front man. But they never fell out badly over anything, really.”

“Can you think of anyone else, either in work or around here who might have any kind of grudge against Paul?” Blake said. “No matter how trivial.”

Rachel Travis sat thinking for a while and for a second, Blake thought he’d lost her to some kind of miserable daydream but then she looked up at him. “A week ago, he had to have a word with some kids. Well, I say kids, they were teenagers and old enough to know better. It was last Saturday, I think. We were just taking Danielle around the village for a walk. They were sitting on the war memorial steps, drinking cans of lager. There was a can crushed and dropped on the ground.”

“I imagine Paul wouldn’t like that.”

“No but he was sensible enough not to just go wading in and barking at them. He asked them politely if they knew what the memorial was for and asked them to respect it. One of the younger kids picked up the crushed can and the others started to go but one